On the Banks of the Bighorn Part Twelve – by Tracker

 

The law, Beauty, and Consequences

 

Juliette Chen’s Narrative

 

It was hot on the marble stage.  All twelve of us girls secured there felt the heat, but Lorna, Kathy, formerly Kathy Harris, and me had been there the longest. There was not a cloud in the clear big sky to give us any relief.  I remembered how I had shivered in the cold last night, and longed for some of that cool air now.  The constant dust kicked up by the riders, and by the livestock they had brought, in was stuck in my throat.  I was thankful that every hour Alex and the other stage attendants brought us water and would take us off the stage if we needed to pee.  I was getting quite fond of Alex.  He seemed like a nice kid, except for his habit of chaining up naked women.  With the arrival of the war captives, the wyld wymen, and then the survivalists, he and the others had taken to carrying switches such as the ones Granny Mowbray had used.  Unlike Lorna and Kathy, and the Danish girls enslaved in the morning, they did not receive water or breaks to stretch and pee. They just stood there.  The wyld wymen were gagged again. They were getting tedious with their rants against men, and threats of vengeance. 

 

The noise of the cattle was constant.  It was so different to the sounds Patrick and I had heard in our hidden vale as we played at Barbarian and Slave Girl.  The chattering of squirrels and the song of the birds had been our soundtrack as we played the Disney version of slave fantasy.  A rabbit had even hopped by as Patrick had secured me to a try for a bit of sex.  Yesterday, oh lord, was it only yesterday, no one had seen me naked but squirrels and rabbits, but today I am sure hundreds of people had looked upon me, commented on my body, judged me, and I had lost track of the number who had fondled me. The soundtrack here was bellowing calves as they were castrated, as their ears were pierced to attach ear tags, and as they were branded.  I least I hoped it was only cattle that were being branded.  Aaron, the cowboy who had captured me, had said one of the slaves, the kajirae he had rounded up that morning, had already been branded. Already this scared me. This was not the Disney version.

 

The sun and wind had dried my skin, and I am sure I am burned.  Kathy, with her pale skin, is terribly red.  Pain is making her regress back into her fugue state. “My name is Kathy Harris,  I am a Free Woman of the Traditional People,” she will moan two or three times before a switch reminds her to be silent.

 

Oh, Patrick, get me out of here. Please come.  I know this is all apparently legal because of consular status and diplomatic immunity, but get me out of here.  You are a lawyer; you can find a loophole.  The other girls can suffer, but rescue ME. 

 

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From Smith’s Secret Diary

 

Mr Wilson Frick, my boss, his nephew Woodrow Frick, and two of the Luthans; the Prime Minister, Count Franz Rupert, and an aide; sat on hay bales facing the stage.  The third Luthan, a hard man - certainly no bureaucrat or diplomat - and I, stood watching.  I was on extra alert with what I had heard of a firefight when Woodrow made his hurried report to Mr Wilson Frick. The Luthan security man did not smile, neither did I, as we were both on duty. I considered if I could take him. He would be tough to take down, and it would depend on who got in the first blow.  In my forty-five years I have learned some tricks, so maybe old age and treachery would prevail.

 

Two guys from my crew, Aaron, the young pup adopted onto the ranch from the wyld wymen, and Tom Harris, pulled a couple of bales in front of the official party.  Neither of them looked at the stage, which was strange as the stage was certainly worth looking at.  Twelve women, displayed helplessly, mostly good-looking, some astoundingly so.

 

Then my mind boggled a bit.  Two of the older women, the ones called Grannies, came leading a procession of four young collared women, in short grey tunics.  I recognized one from the bunkhouse, and one I had seen around, but the other two were new. Women were arriving and leaving all the time, and a small plane had arrived and left the strip two nights ago.  Hawkins, another of the assistant foreman said it was from headquarters in Pittsburgh.

 

The Grannies supervised as the girls laid a checkered table cloth over the bales and then laid out a spread from the wicker baskets they carried.  Cold fried chicken, country biscuits, coleslaw, and some chilled champagne. The Luthan security man and I were both offered boxed lunches but I put mine away for later. I was on duty and could not be distracted. The Luthan man did the same.  In the movies we would have shared a rueful smile, but this was not the movies, and he was no friend.  An ally maybe, but not a friend.

 

Without seeming to, I eavesdropped. I am sure the Luthan did the same.  Mr Wilson Frick opened the conversation by gesturing to the stage, “Lovely aren’t they; women displayed make a nice view.  Not all chosen for looks though, these are mostly strays and captives.  The really sunburned one up there in the middle is a disgraced Free Woman.  We take lapses from societal norms very seriously.”

 

That rocked me for two reasons. I had never considered that the ranch people would enslave their own women if they stepped away from modest behaviour, although I had heard of Grannies using the switch and the heads of households using the belt.  The second thing was when had Mr Frick been briefed on who was on the Lost and Found stage?  He had been working all day!  Mr Frick made sure he was kept informed on all that occurred on his ranch.  Fred had told me that morning that Mr Frick didn’t know everything, but he knew almost everything as far as I could tell.

 

The Luthan Count replied, at length as he was a politician, “Well norms must be enforced, I agree.  That is why we have, very quietly of course, maintained our ancient laws against trespass and excessive debt.  We are a frugal people, like the Swiss, but not as flashy.  It has served us well. We always had good relations with foreign countries in Europe whose rulers and leaders would come to hunt in our forests and be entertained by certain well trained human livestock. Do you know the story of the Congress of Berlin of 1878?”

 

Mr Frick said he knew only in outline and the Count was off again, “After the Russo-Ottoman war, there was a Congress in Berlin to decide how the Balkans should be divided.  There was some question of sweeping us into Bulgaria or Serbia, but we invited Chancellor Bismarck and Prime Minister Disraeli to come to Lutha for a pleasant weekend in our capital, and over a couple of slave girls they agreed that Lutha should maintain its independence.  Every year afterwards we dispatched a girl to the Chancellor’s rural estate and one to Mr Disraeli.  Prince Albert had often visited Lutha before his death, and we keep up the tradition of dispatching a girl to his son until his untimely death before the first world war.

 

Mr Frick intervened, “Yes the First World War upended a lot of things. It was about that time that my family became consuls for your country in the United States, to use our influence to help maintain your independence. A relationship that has been beneficial to us both.”

 

The Prime Minister finally got to the point.  “But the recent crash of 2008 has allowed us to expand our relationship as many poor girls found they could not repay their debts at that time.”

 

“Many of them quite beautiful,” added Mr Frick.

 

“Yes, but that would be natural. Less attractive women tend to be more frugal, as their lovers, if they have lovers, will not be as generous.  Of course, being less beautiful, they know they are more likely to face consequences.”

 

“Whereas beautiful women are less careful, as they have rarely if ever faced consequences.  So they run up debt, counting on being able to con some man into paying, even if they must marry him.”

 

The Count jumped back in, pleased to be in such accord with Mr Frick, “But with the crash, they are unable to pay, and the men they had counted on, must also cut down on expenses, as they cannot afford a mistress or a divorce.”

 

“Then they ended up on their knees, facing consequences for the first time.  To the pleasure of the respectable and the benefit of your treasury.”

 

“In remoter parts of the country, chaste and respectable women rejoiced as these women were collared. The traditional women, dressed in our traditional national costume as opposed to these sluts who were placed in the pillories for sale.  This was not done in the tourist season you understand.  Now to protect our somewhat below the radar trade, we are thinking it is necessary to handle some of our own diplomatic relations, those we don’t really want to bring the Austrians in on.  The cut they would demand would be too much.  We want to open embassies in Brussels and Washington, with consulates in relevant cities to facilitate our trade.  This would of course not affect your own position here, but we wanted to apprise you of our plans.”

 

“I would recommend Boston, New Orleans, Pittsburgh, Las Vegas, and San Francisco for the consulates. My family could manage the Pittsburgh consulate for you, to dispatch girls from there into your network and receive them as well.  We have relationships with the Families in Boston, New Orleans, and Las Vegas and can put you in touch with them.  San Francisco is an Open City, without a dominant Family, so it may prove a little more difficult.”

 

“I thank you for your understanding and help. With most of our business concluded, the rest of the trip can be devoted to pleasure.”

 

“I think we can show you some entertainment that would please Bismarck or Disraeli, and such that even that jaded master of pleasure Edward VII would approve.”

The gentlemen turned to their repast while my mind reeled.  What a plan! Global trading of livestock through embassies and consulates!  Use of the diplomatic bag would evade all customs and frontier checks.  I had to get this information off to my contact somehow!  I decided that I had to stick to the Lazy F ranch. It would be paradise to work at.

 

Juliette Chen’s Narrative.

 

Two days ago I had been a quiet decent woman camping with her boyfriend, who she was sure she was going to marry. Now I am displayed naked, as part of a backdrop while work goes on and I am the object of scorn. I am hungry, I have not eaten anything since breakfast yesterday when Patrick fed me as I knelt beside him.  I am ravenous.  Some men sit down on the hay bales that provide seating and look at us as animals in a zoo, or animals to be auctioned in a sales ring. My hair is lank and hanging around my face because it has lost all its body in this heat.

 

Alex came by a couple of minutes ago and gave me a drink. He held the straw to my parched lips and let me drink deep.  The captured survivalist women made nasty comments about lubricating my throat like the slut I was. I ignored them and didn’t say anything, I wasn’t going to say anything that stopped me getting a drink. I knew they would do anything they were told by this point, just to get a drink. I also knew that they were jealous.  We could not hide anything from each other, naked as we were on the stage, and I knew I was better looking than they.  I normally didn’t compare myself as a beauty to most other women, because I wanted to be decent and respectable rather than gawked at.  I was proud of my fitness though, and I think I was the fittest woman on that stage. 

 

Alex told me that there was a particularly rough patch of skin on my back and that we would put lotion on it.  He rubbed the lotion into the skin of my back and the skin just soaked it up.  I was surprised by how much I responded just to hands on my back. I knew that being naked for two days had made me ultra-sensitive to the world around me, but I had not expected this.  The effect was so overwhelming that I did not mention that my left breast was also feeling in need of the lotion, as the sun and wind had been quite strong from that direction.  Nor did I mention the lips of my sex.  I had been handled there so often on this horrible day, that with the moisture which came with arousal, and then being dried by the wind I was feeling my skin was quite chapped in an unusual place.  I wondered if there was such a thing as vaginal chapstick. I moaned as Alex rubbed my back.  He slapped my ass again as he moved away. “You really are quite a hot one. Your master is very lucky.”

 

He went back to skylarking on the beam high over the heads of us girls.  He was very surefooted and brave. While Alex and the stage attendants were playing on the beam and the tripods that supported it, a terrible thing happened.  A procession of grannies and scantily clad women served a meal to the men who were looking at us from seats on the hay bales.  These men actually ate in front of us!  None of us had been fed and these men ate and drank in front of us, served by their women.  I caught sight of collars around their necks, as their very short tunics had deeply plunging necklines. They were such a contrast to the women of the ranch, all of whom were almost completely covered up.  The men just ate and drank.  Two men were not drinking: one was Smith, the man who had fondled me as I lay over his saddle early this morning as he transported me to Donnie’s truck.  The first man to fondle me today.  The first of many.  You never forget your first, they say. I will never forget his leather gloved finger as it caressed my bum, even sticking his finger in my bum hole.

 

I saw another of the cowboys I had first encountered hours ago, just as dawn was breaking.  It was Tom Harris, Kathy’s brother.  He must have snuck back while Granny Mowbray was not looking. He was not looking at his sister, burned red now in the sun, for he was at the other end of the stage where the survivalist war captives were. He was working himself up emotionally, denouncing their attacks on the ranch.  He went on defending his home against all attacks.  He was pretty emotional. As he got to the end of the line of the war captives, he saw Lorna, the Bison rancher from the reservation northwest of the ranches.

 

“Hi, Lorna, do you remember me?”

 

“You are Tom Harris. We were at Agricultural College together at Boise State.”

 

“I’m surprised you remember me, as you didn’t seem to have time for me then.” He had grabbed her by the waist and, standing close, was feeling her breasts. “Too busy fucking professors and sucking up to the city kids.”

 

Lorna was stung, “I never slept with any professor when I was taking a class from them! I earned all my grades! If your grades weren’t as good as mine, it was because you didn’t work as hard!”

 

“You ignored me, and we were from the same area. Well I am going to buy you, and take you to our ranch and tame you! We will need a woman to do the woman’s work around there.”  For the first time he shot a glance at his disgraced sister, then returned his attention to Lorna. “If your brother even shows up to claim a disgrace like you, I will fight him for you.”

 

He stamped off as Lorna slumped, her body supported only by the bracelets over her head.  What more could this horrible day hold, I wondered.

 

Lorna had thought that this day was going to be a lark, a bit of a slap and tickle. She wasn’t having fun anymore on her Hot Girl Slave Afternoon.

 

The day was moving along.  I needed Patrick to find me and to rescue me. He would find a loophole in the Luthan law. It looked like Lorna would need rescuing too.

 

Help needed to come before sundown. Hurry, Patrick, Hurry.